


Professionals

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: The Debts We Make [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Canon, UST, Yes it's sort of both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and Aramis are having a drink while Porthos is out of town. The topic of oral sex comes up, and Athos makes some interesting discoveries.</p><p>“Proper fellatio shouldn’t be proper at all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professionals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SmuttyLadies](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SmuttyLadies).



> This is my first ever smutty fanfic. Hope it only sucks in the right ways. ;)
> 
> Also, I'm sure I've made a complete hash of the tagging. Suggestions on that front very welcome.
> 
> Oh, these characters aren't mine, etc.

By Vera d’Auriac

“Ah, Floriane. Such a nice girl. I wonder if she ever learned to not try so hard.” 

Aramis watched the lady in question make her way up the stairs with her client while Athos in turn watched Aramis. With Porthos on an assignment out of Paris, it was just the two of them, and because of that Athos had probably spent more time looking at Aramis than he typically did. Athos missed Porthos, missed his laugh, but Aramis could fill two lifetimes worth of evenings with charming stories, even if said charming stories often had Athos rolling his eyes. After a long, dull week of guard duty at the palace, Athos felt exhausted, wanting nothing but wine and distraction. An evening at his favorite tavern with Aramis was exactly what he needed. Well, he had contemplated inquiring into the availability of Floriane’s services—he had been quite pleased with her in the past—but he had decided that Aramis’s company and another bottle of wine suited him better. 

However, Athos wanted to combine these elements—Aramis’s critiquing Floriane over a glass of wine—about as much as he wanted to muck stables twelve hours a day. 

“Yes, a very nice girl,” Athos said. “Have you—“ 

“Most aggressive tongue I’ve ever run across,” Aramis said. 

Athos stifled his sigh by taking another deep drink from his glass. Yes, Floriane had employed her tongue enthusiastically when Athos had handed over his sous for fellatio. But he had found the experience quite satisfactory at the end of the day, or night, as it were. She had smiled and winked at him as she slowly unfastened his sword belt. She had sucked at his neck while she unbuttoned his pants, pushed them past his hips, and then slid down his underclothes. And then the caressing grip she had taken of him…he regretted not leaving Aramis and claiming Floriane more and more as the memory grew. A part of him always experienced a measure of distaste at patronizing a lady of custom, and more often than not the memory of doing so stopped him from doing it again, but tonight, tonight he should have permitted himself. 

“She just licked and licked and licked,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “From root to tip. Over and over and over.” 

Athos remembered Floriane’s technique similarly, but clearly more fondly than Aramis. After taking a hold of him, she sat him on the edge of the bed and knelt between his knees. Following another wink, she had bent over and started licking his cock, as Aramis had said, from root to tip. He had found it rather pleasurable, but apparently when Aramis had patronized the lady, he had felt differently. He always felt differently. Being far and away the most experienced lover of their group, Aramis understood how to please and how best to be pleased. As a rule, kind and generous in his recollections, the harsh critic in Aramis occasionally surfaced. This knowledge might seem like a blessing, but Aramis had ruined a professional lady for Athos once before by pointing out how clueless she seemed when you put her on top. 

“The one time I…,” Athos trailed off and cleared his throat. “Well, I found her abilities satisfactory. Now let me get us another bottle.” 

“Satisfactory?” Aramis protested. “I will be the first to admit that Floriane’s line of work is not an easy one. I am, after all, a gentleman. But when one is talking about services rendered by a professional woman one has paid, one does hope for more than mere satisfaction.”

“I paid for a service. It was performed to its ending.” Athos waved rather frantically at the barmaid. “We need another bottle.” 

“If you think Floriane’s satisfactory performance is acceptable, I weep for you,” Aramis said. “Allow me to explain. She started with her tongue at the base and slowly licked up the underside of my shaft.” 

Athos could recall the action quite clearly. Luckily, he at last caught the eye of the barmaid and raised the empty bottle. She nodded her understanding. 

“And when she got to the top, she swirled the back of her tongue around the tip for what seemed like an age. But I did not wish to complain. It’s not as though that’s an unpleasant sensation, after all.” 

Athos nodded, but with his face turned away from Aramis toward the shadows of the corner. He didn’t think his expression would give away that he’d found the sensation extremely pleasant, but if anyone could read his blank countenance, it would be Aramis. But why did he even care if Aramis could read him? He was allowed to have a differing opinion on a woman, wasn’t he?

“After that, it was swallow for all of half a second and then lick for half a minute. Over and over and over. I think I finally came because of the boredom. I wanted to get it over with and get back down here to another hand of cards with you and Porthos.” 

From what he could recall, Athos’s orgasm with Floriane had little to do with boredom. He had been genuinely stimulated by her ministrations with her mouth, and yes, tongue. But now that he thought back, remembered that night coupled with this new information, he recalled feeling his desperation for physical contact being so strong he had been surprised that he had lasted as long as he had. Dammit. Athos would never again be able to engage Floriane’s services. At least not for that. 

“She was quite good,” Athos argued anyway. “I understand that your vast experience has given you far more encounters to choose from when selecting the best, but for the rest of us, Floriane is a capable and talented young woman.” 

The barmaid set the fresh bottle down in front of them and took the empty away. 

“I’m not sure I would even call her capable in this respect,” Aramis said. 

“But you did come.” 

Aramis paused, sat up a bit straighter, and raised his left eyebrow. “I suppose I did. So, we shall certainly call her capable. Still,” he waved a hand, “I can give better fellatio than that.” 

Athos, with his glass topped off, had momentarily felt slightly more prepared to continue this awkward conversation. But that was before this statement. In fact, he could not believe he had just heard Aramis utter those words. Granted, this was bottle three, so while neither of them could be called terribly drunk, they couldn’t be said to be sober, either. 

“Pardon?” 

“I can suck a cock decidedly better than she can. I would even go so far as to say, given that you seem pleased with her level of ability, I can perform fellatio better than any professional you have ever made use of.” 

Athos quickly decided that Aramis could not be serious, that this was simply a bit of drunken braggadocio. “Yes, I am certain that you have learned a great many tricks over the years and could put them to good use should you have a mind to. Now, let me have your glass, and I will top you off.” 

Aramis pulled his wine glass to his chest and covered the top with his hand. “You think I am merely boasting!” 

“Aramis,” Athos said, rolling his eyes, “do not be ridiculous. Give me your glass.” 

“I can, you know,” Aramis said a bit softer. “All of those things you hear about seminary schools are absolutely true. I mean, what do you expect when you lock up together a group of sexually desirous naïve boys with no girls? I had something of a reputation, in fact.” 

Athos was not surprised, to be honest. He had known seminary educated men before, and the stories surrounding what the boys got up to in those schools were founded in fact. And it did not especially surprise him, once he was willing to admit that his friend and brother-in-arms had experienced this kind of seminary education, that Aramis had a reputation. How could he not? His sexual knowledge and experience no one doubted. And Athos had always thought Aramis handsome; in fact, he knew no one who thought otherwise. What surprised Athos was the stirring this baldly-stated fact had on his not completely wine-soaked cock. 

After clearing his throat several times, “Yes, I’ve no doubt you did. But luckily you never had to make a profession out of it.” 

Aramis held out his glass, and Athos filled it. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

They both settled back, Athos having no idea what to say, but Aramis, naturally, filled the void. “I should open a school.”

Athos choked on his wine. “What?”

“Or perhaps just let it be known I’m available for lessons. There’s really no reason the professionals of Paris should not be more adept.” He smoothed out first the left side and then the right of his mustache.

“Could you not simply tell them what to do when you are with them? I do believe part of the fee that is charged is for taking requests. Within reason, of course.”

Aramis sighed. “But that should be part of the pleasure of being with a professional. I have no problem giving a young maid a few instructions to help her, and me, along the way. But when I have offered up my meager wage for a night of pleasure, I hope to be exempt from teaching for the evening. Telling her what I want is entirely different from having to go to the pains to tell her how to do it properly.”

Athos uncrossed his legs and shifted several times before settling into a moderately less uncomfortable position. “Perhaps you are too used to having your own way. And your standards are unreasonable. The ladies of Paris are quite good at their work. Now, poor Porthos. He must be suffering in the wilds of Gascony.”

“Provincial women typically make up for a lack of technique with enthusiasm.”

“Very well, then. I defer to your expertise in these matters.” Athos tipped his glass to Aramis before taking a drink.

And then Athos finally managed to change the topic to the abilities of the new apprentice at the armory. He surely should have thought of this solution sooner—Aramis always wanted to discuss weapons and the people who make and use them. After about five minutes on the comparative features and benefits of the latest batch of muskets at the garrison, Athos could even cross his legs comfortably again.

However, his reprieve was brief. It wasn’t long after their conversation had switched from muskets to pistols when Floriane returned with her smiling customer to order a bottle of wine “and a plate of chops for this ravenous man,” she giggled. When asked by the proprietor if she needed something to eat, she swiped at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not hungry,” she winked.

Aramis threw his hands up in the air, Floriane having put on this show so that the entire tavern could hear. Everyone there was laughing and enjoying the performance, save the two men at this table. “He looks like a ditch digger or some other such laborer,” Aramis mused. “Floriane might well be the best, the most accomplished, he has ever been able to afford. Such a shame. Every man should have his cock sucked properly at least once in his life.”

“Perhaps you should volunteer,” Athos snapped a bit more harshly then he had any right to. “After his chops, I am sure he will be ready to go again.”

Aramis laughed, but shook his head all the same. “He does not strike me as the worthiest candidate for my ministrations.” He drained his wine glass and leaned across the table. “Proper fellatio shouldn’t be proper at all. Nor should it be teasing or subtle. Women have the habit, kindly meant, of treating a man’s cock as some sort of delicate flower. As though it needs the same sort of coaxing as what’s between their legs.”

Athos found himself half-hard again and getting worse, but what could he actually say at this moment? What could he interject to change the direction of the conversation? A return to weaponry would be utterly inelegant, but the thought of contributing to how men and women typically touch the bodies of the other was too horrifying to contemplate. But why should that be? He and Aramis and Porthos discussed sex often, it being perhaps the favorite topic of the other two. And yet tonight, it was different. Different because Aramis had said he could bring Athos pleasure, and contemplating that possibility, contemplating the sensations and implications of the admission, could not be tolerated. No, Athos decided, it was simpler, if not less terrifying, to sit back and listen to Aramis describe how men and women touched each other than to join the conversation. He took a long drink.

“What’s needed is firmness and a steady pace. Pleasing a man is much more like riding a horse than satisfying a woman.”

Athos paused with his wineglass half way between his lips and the table, uncertain which way to continue. He eventually chose to return the glass to his lips. The glass emptied, he poured in the remainder from the bottle. “That, I suppose, is one way to think of it.”

“Think about how you grip yourself,” Aramis proposed. Athos wanted to do no such thing, even less did he want to think about Aramis gripping himself. But what use is it to tell yourself not to think of a thing? “Are you teasing? Do you spend a near eternity stroking the tip? Or do you grab it and begin?”

“I should hope that a professional would take better care of me than I take of myself.”

“A fair supposition,” Aramis nodded. “And yet, not entirely satisfying. You know, Athos--.”

“Another bottle, then?” asked the barmaid, nodding to their empty glasses and bottles.

Athos had the word “Yes” still forming on his lips when Aramis answered, “No, thank you.” The radiant smile he gave her meant that she did not bother to consult Athos in the matter, in spite of the fact he had been the one paying all night.

“Time to head home, don’t you think?” Aramis asked after the girl had walked away.

Athos cleared his throat. “I suppose it is rather late.”

They pushed back from the table and rose at the same moment. When Athos reached down for his hat, he found Aramis’s hand already on it. He held it out with a smile Athos thought he reserved for ladies who had dropped their handkerchiefs. Athos snatched his hat away as quickly as he averted his eyes. And then he silently cursed himself for behaving like an awkward schoolboy the entire walk to the door. This was Aramis, his brother-in-arms. What had really happened tonight, after all? Aramis had confirmed actions from his past at the seminary Athos already suspected. And then Aramis had spoken frankly about sex, which he did as often as not when they drank together. Of course, Athos knew the change had nothing to do with Aramis, but with something fundamental about himself. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, and even more strongly lower down.

He cursed his ill luck even more when they stepped out onto the street. By coming to this tavern rather than any one of the many others they frequented, it meant they would reach Athos’s rooms first. Had it been the other way around, Aramis would undoubtedly have invited him in for a drink he could refuse. But reaching Athos’s first meant he should ask Aramis in, and he felt too confused to spend any time in a room alone with Aramis. There had been nights in the past that Athos had not invited Aramis or Porthos in because he was too busy overcoming memories of her to be fit company. But he had not been especially melancholy tonight. Aramis would wonder if Athos failed to invite him in for a glass of wine. Actually, perceptive, sensitive Aramis would not wonder—he would know why. He would know Athos shunned his company because of the things he had said that night. Athos didn’t want to hurt Aramis or embarrass himself, which seemed the only two outcomes.

“Think about the finest fellatio you have ever received from one of Paris’s ladies of custom,” Aramis struck up after they had only strolled a few steps down the narrow street.

“Aramis,” groaned Athos. “It is unlike you to have such an idee fixe.”

“It’s entirely like me,” he waved off. “Now, Athos, think about that moment, your finest moment, of this particular variety. Would you describe the experience as more feminine or masculine?”

“Pardon?”

“Was it teasing and gentle, as women are apt to behave around a man’s essential manliness, or was it direct and forceful in the same way you are wont to take yourself?”

“You cannot possibly expect me to answer that.” Of course, Athos had internally answered the question. The answer was not to the precise question Aramis had asked, but when thinking of the most enjoyable fellatio of his life, he thought back to her. She had not been a professional Parisian whore, but she had been a magnificent lover. The answer to whether her technique had been essentially masculine or feminine, however, was less clear; just when he was about to settle on one, he thought it could be more aptly described as the other.

“I can tell by the slight smirk on your otherwise stony countenance that you have alighted on a fond memory.” Aramis chuckled as he slapped a hand on Athos’s shoulder. “So, which would you say?”

“Neither,” Athos answered. Aramis was clearly about to protest, so Athos elaborated. “It was pleasant, but I would not describe it as particularly masculine or feminine.”

“Then how would you describe it?”

“I would not.”

Aramis laughed, and Athos hoped more than ever Aramis would now let it go. He could not fathom anything more awful than being made to think of her or Aramis in such intimate terms. She was dead and had…he still did not possess adequate words to explain what she had done. And Aramis was a friend, a male friend. There was nothing more absurd than to stumble home half drunk thinking about how it would feel to have your friends lips wrapped around your cock. Heaven help him, but he wanted to think of anything else other than Aramis’s delicate, bowed mouth moving up and down his hard, desperate cock. Clutching Aramis’s wild hair while those graceful lips slid from tip to root and back again.

“Athos?”

God, but he had actually slowed down while thinking about that which he wished to banish from his mind. He doubled his pace, his rooms only anther block away. “Sorry,” Athos said. He groped for an additional explanation for his behavior, but finding none, continued in awkward silence.

But Aramis, naturally, was not put out of step by anything. “There is, of course, more to really good fellatio. And I should have pointed out at the beginning of the conversation that my entire argument is dependent on whether or not the activity is merely the beginning of a longer evening, the main event, or the finish. I have been describing fellatio meant to either end the night or be the night entire. Now, when it is used simply to get a man hard….” Athos forced a cough so he could drowned out what Aramis was saying. At this moment he was so impossibly hard he felt fit to burst physically, but also emotionally, spiritually. He knew his very thoughts were a sin. “Feeling alright, Athos?”

“Quite fine,” Athos answered. It only took him the smallest fraction of a second to realize he had just missed his opportunity to not invite Aramis up to his rooms, which were now within sight.

Athos’s rooms were above a wine merchant’s shop. Aramis and Porthos had long teased Athos for the choice, even though they well knew when he had moved in the proprietor at the time had been a cooper. But Athos liked the location—easy distance from his favorite taverns and the garrison—and simple accommodations. All he needed was the narrow bed and the sitting room. Frankly, he could have done without the sitting room. He had few possessions with him in Paris, and he carried all of the important ones on his person. He slipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve his key and accidentally brushed the head of his cock. He coughed again to mask a groan.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright?” Aramis asked, placing his hand back on Athos’s shoulder. “Perhaps I should see you upstairs.”

“That is unnecessary,” Athos said in a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat, hoping that would help him sound a bit more himself. “It is late and I need sleep.” He finally had the key out of his pocket, and he aimed for the lock, but missed several times. He wanted to scream, wondered how the night could get worse, when Aramis pressed up against him and gently slipped the key from Athos’s hand.

“Allow me,” Aramis said. He slid the key into the lock on his first try. Still leaning against Athos’s back, Aramis pushed the door open with his left hand, his right tangled in the hair at the nape of Athos’s neck. “Let me see you upstairs.”

Athos opened his mouth to protest, but only managed an incoherent grunt, not an actual rebuttal to the offer. Aramis, on the other hand, subtly, but unmistakably, guided Athos with the hand on his neck, through the door and closed it behind them. Before Athos could form a thought, let alone words, Aramis propelled him up the stairs to the squat landing. Aramis, still with Athos’s keys, reached around his waist and slipped the proper key into this lock as well. The door trickled open while Athos hesitated on the threshold. He could not walk through the door, could not invite Aramis in.

Athos felt the hair behind his ear flutter, Aramis so close that either his breath or his very lips brushed against him. He had thought he could not walk into the room, but he could still less stay here with Aramis pressed against him, breathing on his ear. He stepped into the room, wondering where in the hell he may have left a candle.

But before he could locate a candle, Aramis was in the room, their bodies touching. The door clicked closed behind them. Athos could not decide if he dreaded or longed for what might come next.

Aramis grabbed him and pushed him back against the door, hands pinning back each shoulder. Everything around Athos blurred, his focus lost until all of his concentration flew to a single spot on the right side of his neck, just below where his jaw began, where Aramis’s lips rested and between them his tongue slipped. Athos held his breath, the soft wetness the bullseye on a target, which Aramis found as he always did. The tongue made a small circle, still not spreading beyond where the lips rested. That spot, that one tiny spot, was Athos’s entire focus. When Aramis then sucked lightly, Athos groaned, his eyes again rolling up in his head, but for entirely different reasons than earlier.

Athos thought he would be content, happy even, to have Aramis kiss him thusly until he collapsed on the floor, but then Aramis’s lips moved, the tongue still peeking out between them. He licked down the underside of Athos’s jaw to his chin and then down his throat. Now that he had begun to move, Athos decided he had been wrong about wanting Aramis’s mouth in one place—he wanted Aramis’s tongue all over his body.

Aramis.

A vestige in the back of Athos’s wine-soaked brain remembered that this was Aramis. This was unacceptable behavior, a desire that should not be felt, and yet he felt it. More than felt. He reveled in it, in every touch of Aramis’s mouth and hands and body. But he needed to stop it nonetheless.

“Aramis.” But when Athos said the name, the tone did not indicate that he wished to speak, even less that he wanted this to stop. Instead the tone was breathless, the word pronounced with longing. Aramis licked the hollow of his throat before dropping to his knees.

The sensation of dizziness became so great, Athos had to close his eyes. But he could feel…everything. The feeling of Aramis’s mouth lingered all over his jaw and throat, but he could also feel what Aramis did now, and at the moment Aramis was unbuttoning his pants. But Aramis struggled, and Athos could not allow him to stop. He forced himself to concentrate on something other than his immediate sensations, and he realized his sword belt was inhibiting Aramis’s progress. He ripped at his worn belt, an old friend he knew his way with even in the most drunken stupors. In seconds, sword and belt clattered to the floor. And now Athos stopped lying to himself about how much he wanted this; he had just actively participated in making this happen, had helped it continue when he could have ended it. 

Aramis purred and pulled the buttons free. With a jerk, he had Athos’s pants down and set to work on his underclothes. The laces there came easily, and then there Athos was, exposed to Aramis. He kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he looked at Aramis somehow this might end. He might become embarrassed, Aramis might remember who he was with and change his mind, or it might all simply fade like a dream.

And then Aramis’s lips closed around Athos’s cock. Of course, he had been fellated before, yet those experiences could not compare to what Aramis was doing to him now. Just as he had been advocating all night, Aramis spared no time in teasing about his tip, wasted no effort licking up and down the shaft. No, Aramis took Athos firmly in his mouth and built a rhythm, moving up and down.

Athos leaned his head back against the wall and groaned deep in his throat. He felt as though he could come any second, wanted to come this very instant, but he also craved for this to last as long as possible. So far Aramis had him gripped at the base with one hand, the other gently resting on his hip. But then he picked up the pace and clutched Athos’s hips in both hands, pulling him closer, deeper into his mouth. Athos fought to keep his balance, needed to take hold of something. He reached out with his right hand and groped at the edge of the doorjamb. His left flailed empty at his side, and then he dropped it in front of himself, on top of Aramis’s head.

Without giving it any thought, he laced his fingers into Aramis’s hair, which made the man on his knees moan. Athos dug his fingers in deeper, pushing and pulling Aramis along the length of himself. The pace quickened again, but more significantly to Athos, Aramis began to suck. Hard. It made Athos clutch Aramis’s wild hair even tighter, as though compelled by some need to physically show his own equal physical reaction to what Aramis did.

Athos began to shake, the shiver emanating from his back and radiating down into his quivering legs. Aramis’s rhythm up and down continued, and somehow he managed to suck harder every pass back to the tip. Athos knew it would be over soon, could not be otherwise, in fact. Aramis seemed to sense it, too, releasing his grip from Athos’s hips and throwing his arms around Athos’s body, embracing him in an obscene hug. Squeezing tighter, sucking harder, and now moaning with every tug Athos gave to his hair, Aramis was begging him to come. Athos found himself unable do to anything but comply. 

Normally a quiet lover, Athos growled when he came in Aramis’s mouth. And he shuddered uncontrollably for so long, he couldn’t believe he was still in the throes of his climax. The entire time, all the way through Athos’s final twitch of pleasure, Aramis held him tightly, his long fingers caressing into Athos’s skin. Even when he had finished, when Aramis had swallowed the last of Athos’s seed, they remained locked together, Aramis reluctant to end his embrace, Athos yet with his fingers tangled in Aramis’s hair, Athos’s cock shrinking inside Aramis’s mouth.

When Aramis finally pulled his head back, Athos wanted to protest, in spite of the fact that he well knew they could not remain in this position indefinitely. With a last contraction of his fingers, Athos forced himself to release Aramis’s hair. And Aramis loosened his embrace, slowly sliding his hands back to Athos’s hips, and then down his legs, until he dropped them to his own sides and they were no longer touching. The emptiness that Athos lived with every day doubled.

Aramis sat back on his haunches into a beam of moonlight leaking in through the window. He looked up at Athos with a smile that crinkled his eyes. Athos could not recall opening his eyes, but he was infinitely pleased that this beautiful face was the sight that greeted him. But, God, how could he think such a thing? And yet he did. He thought Aramis, kneeling before him, a sweet smile on his soft lips, the most glorious sight he had ever seen. He appreciated it for a fleeting moment before vowing he would joyfully burn in hell could he but see this again.

At that moment, Aramis stood. He stepped up to Athos, pushing their bodies together so Athos could feel Aramis’s own longing pressing against his bare hip. He must do the same for Aramis. Not only was it simply polite, but he wanted to, ached, in fact, to take Aramis in his own mouth, to do everything he possibly could to make Aramis feel half so good as he did at this moment.

But he didn’t get the opportunity. Aramis kissed Athos, a fleeting, almost chaste, brush of their lips. With his most mischievous grin, Aramis pulled back so as to look Athos in the eye. “I told you I was better than any of the professionals you’d ever been with.” A swift kiss to his cheek and then Aramis gently nudged Athos to the side and slipped out the door.


End file.
